How Things Work

Today it’s going to cost us twenty dollars To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book, A handful of ones for coffee and two sweet rolls, Bus fare, rosin for your mother’s violin. We’re completing our task. The tip I left For the waitress filters down Like rain, wetting the new roots of a child Perhaps, a belligerent cat that won’t let go Of a balled sock until there’s chicken to eat. As far as I can tell, daughter, it works like this: You buy bread from a grocery, a bag of apples From a fruit stand, and what coins Are passed on helps others buy pencils, glue, Tickets to a movie in which laughter Is thrown into their faces. If we buy a goldfish, someone tries on a hat. If we buy crayons, someone walks home with a broom. A tip, a small purchase here and there, And things just keep going. I guess.